The Devil His Due
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: They also serve who only sit and wait.


Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

Thanks, Owl and Cheri, for the beta advice.

**Author's Note: **Briefly, and before McCormick, it was _Hardcastle and Beale_. But that only lasted one day before J.J. took off in the judge's 'Vette and had to be tracked down and returned to prison. He swore he'd be out in six months and, true to his promise, he contrived to escape and go after Hardcastle. Despite Beale's reputation (with Milt, at least) as the slickest, smartest, steeliest bad guy since Jessie James, the judge and Mark finally ran him to ground before he could take his revenge. He was returned to prison, and life went on for the Lone Ranger and Tonto.

**The Devil His Due**

by L.M. Lewis

Hardcastle was in Sacramento, providing some testimony at a congressional hearing on proposed changes in the juvenile court system. Mark had offered to drive him up there, but it made more sense for at least one of them to hold down the fort back at the law clinic.

So there he was, returning with carry-out for himself and their secretary, Joyce. For once the waiting area was empty and they both might get a chance to eat an uninterrupted lunch. But despite this unusual lull, Joyce looked disconcerted.

"The mail came while you were out," she said, holding up one item in particular. "There's this, from the state parole commission."

Mark's mood took a slight lurch at the mention of that governmental body. It always did, even though its power over him had ended nearly five years earlier and he was even in possession of a pardon from the governor's office.

Joyce didn't seem to take note of his nervous twitch. She was looking down at the contents of the letter with an expression of irritation. "It's a notice about a parole hearing, but I can't seem to locate a file to go with it."

"Whose?" Mark reached for the letter and scanned it briefly. "Oh," he said, having just received another lurch. "I can't believe it's been seven years."

"Since what?"

"Beale, the guy this letter's about," he flicked the note with one finger, "he's due for his first parole hearing. It's been seven years since he was sent up to Folsom . . . Bet he wouldn't say that—the part about not believing it's been that long." Mark frowned back down at the paper. "Time goes faster when you're on the outside."

He sighed then put the letter down. "Anyway, there's no file on him—not here at least. Come on."

He turned to the front door, latched it, and put the little hands of the 'We'll be back at' sign to one o'clock.

"There," he added, "a half-hour for lunch. We've earned it. I got you turkey on whole wheat."

Joyce smiled, filed the letter on top of the pile intended for Hardcastle, and accepted Mr. McCormick's gesture ushering her back to the coffee room.

"So who was he?" she asked, when they'd finally gotten seated and the contents of the white paper bag divvied up.

"Beale?" Mark looked thoughtful for a moment. "The judge'd probably be better at telling you." He frowned again abruptly. "But maybe you shouldn't bring it up."

Joyce made a practice of not evincing any unnecessary curiosity—the perfectly discreet office manager—but this time there was a hit of puzzlement in her expression. No file, and now this cryptic comment.

Mark shrugged sheepishly. "It's not that big a deal, really. J.J. Beale was an ex-con the judge tried to help out. You know, like he did for me."

Joyce had heard enough of Mark's background, mostly from him, that this was greeted with a nod.

"Only that time," she said, "it didn't work out so well, eh?"

That much was evident from the letter, Mark supposed. "Not well at all," he admitted. "He stole the judge's car and some guns, robbed a couple of filling stations, and fled the state. Hardcastle had to go after him."

"And that's how he ended up in Folsom?"

"Not exactly," Mark grimaced. "That time he landed in a smaller prison—not maximum security or anything. He seduced the warden's wife and took her and the warden's car when he broke out. Then he called Hardcastle and basically rubbed his face in it."

"That doesn't sound like a very prudent gesture."

"No, but it took us a while to figure out what he was up to, and by that time he'd found a couple of accomplices and some weapons. He headed to Hardcastle's place and took his housekeeper hostage."

"You two weren't there?"

"No, we were out chasing our tails trying to figure out what he was going to do next," Mark admitted with chagrin. "But it was okay, because we finally tracked him to Gulls Way."

"Where he and his accomplices were already armed and waiting," Joyce said, with some trepidation.

"Uh-huh. Just a matter of getting the drop on them." Mark paused for a moment and then added, with slightly less aplomb, "Except for the part where Beale got away and took the Judge's car a _second _time."

"But you eventually caught up with him."

"Yeah, when he ran out of land," Mark said ruefully. "He ended up fender-deep in the Pacific Ocean."

Joyce nodded once with apparent satisfaction. Then her expression turned more questioning. "Kidnapping, assault, car theft . . . seven years doesn't seem very long."

"Not nearly long enough—that firm you used to work for was all corporate stuff and torts, right?"

Joyce nodded.

"Well, this is what they do when someone's incarcerated, even for life sentences as long as they're not 'life without parole'. There's a hearing after seven years. That letter was addressed to the judge, huh?"

This apparent segue received another nod from Joyce.

"Yeah," Mark said quietly, "they give the victim a chance to tell the board why the prisoner is still a risk to society." He fell silent.

Joyce said nothing at first, but eventually there was a small clearing of the throat. "You'll be getting one, too, I suppose?"

Mark glanced up from his reverie. "Me?"

"It sounds like you were there for the whole thing. Guns, threats—all that."

Mark smiled. "Nah. I wasn't the one he was after. Anyway, the DA wanted to keep me as far away from that prosecution as possible."

Joyce looked confused.

"Yeah, well, see, taking in one ex-con and having him turn on you, that's just bad luck . . . but turning around and inviting a _second_ one into your home—that could give a jury some doubts about a person's sanity. It wouldn't have made Beale any less guilty, but jurors don't like it when victims go looking for trouble."

"I suppose." It didn't sound as though she were convinced.

"But there was another victim," Mark added pensively. "She'll be getting one of those letters . . . I should call her." He was already on his feet, half his sandwich still untouched.

00000

The letter went to Hardcastle's in-box after lunch that day and was presumably read by him the next morning. Mark had to presume, because nothing was said about it. He didn't bring it up either, having an idea that the subject was still distasteful—and maybe even a little embarrassing—to the judge.

As the day of the hearing approached, Mark was even starting to wonder if Hardcastle hadn't slipped a cog on this one—filing and forgetting it completely on account of some deep-seated need to put the matter behind him. Then two days before the appointed date, on the way home from the law clinic, Hardcastle finally made a casual reference.

"J.J. Beale—remember him?"

Mark didn't take his eyes off the road. He grunted an affirmative but did nothing else to indicate that it would be next to impossible to forget a guy who'd come after them with semi-automatic firepower and intent to kill.

"Yeah, well, he's got a parole hearing coming up."

"You got a letter, huh?" Mark aimed the intonation half-way between question and statement.

"Yeah. I thought I'd go up there—to Folsom. Put in an appearance . . . you know, the victim statement." He seemed to toss in that last bit reluctantly. Mark understood—Hardcastle had never seen himself as a victim, even when Weed Randall had tried to kill him.

"Sounds like a good idea," he offered mildly.

"It's the day after tomorrow; you wanna come?"

"_I_ didn't get an invite."

"Well, the prosecutor never named you in the indictments—"

"Yeah," Mark interjected, "though it seemed to me like those four rounds Beale pumped into the Coyote mighta constituted at least assault."

"You remember how many times he shot your _car_?"

"Of course I do. I was hunkered down right behind it. You know we're only talking fiberglass here, Judge. Thank God for aluminum block engines . . . And I wasn't even counting him almost running me down with the 'Vette."

Hardcastle frowned. "I don't think you ever mentioned that."

"Mighta slipped my mind in all the excitement," Mark said dryly. "I was standing in the driveway when he busted through the garage door to make his getaway."

The judge looked like he was giving that one some thought. He finally heaved a fairly resigned sigh. "Okay, kiddo, I'm sorry we left you out of the party, but we already had plenty of charges—heck, there were _seven_ forty-five-fifties alone, for Pete's sake."

"Yeah," Mark shrugged, "what's another attempted murder more or less? Anyway, I've got a pretty full schedule the day after tomorrow. You don't really need me along for moral support, do you?"

"No," the judge said without much enthusiasm, "I guess not."

00000

He saw Hardcastle off on Thursday morning and went about his own business, which involved a visit to an old friend.

00000

The judge arrived at Folsom Prison well before the appointed time. He strolled through the museum and spent a while contemplating the ingenuity of men locked up for long periods in small places--lots of ersatz weaponry in those display cases. The knives made out of melted plastic were particularly well-crafted.

He had half a notion to get something for McCormick at the gift shop but thought better of it, especially after their unusually tense conversation of two days past. Somehow he didn't think a prisoner-made miniature diorama of a maximum security cell—complete right down to a tiny gray blanket on a tiny bunk—would be received in the humor it was intended.

He pushed that thought aside and checked his watch. He'd killed enough time. He trudged over to the receiving area, showing his identification and the paperwork, and was ushered into the part of the administration building used for parole proceedings.

He wasn't looking forward to this confrontation with Beale, who'd spent the past seven years in the section of this prison designated for high risk, maximum security prisoners. Beale's previous escape efforts had earned him that. But Hardcastle also knew the man was a master of false sincerity, with the ability to charm the unsuspecting and even those who prided themselves on being pretty good judges of character.

He hoped this particular parole board would be composed of hardened cynics. Prison crowding had a way of greasing the wheels of the parole process, and while Beale had accumulated a pile of indictable offenses during his last crime spree, he'd miraculously managed not to kill or even maim anyone.

Hardcastle entered the hearing room, which looked not unlike a small courtroom, with benches at one end—provided for the interested parties who might sometimes number a dozen or more. In this case apparently there wasn't all that much interest. It was just him and a guy with salt and pepper hair who didn't look familiar.

The man apparently knew him. "Judge Hardcastle?"

"Uh-huh." His perplexed expression must have been enough to clue the man in.

"You don't remember me—guess not. We only met for a couple of minutes right after the trial. Ed Peters." He stuck out a hand. They shook.

"Ahh," Hardcastle said, enlightenment coming in mid-handshake. "You were one of the correction officers on the bus."

Peters nodded grimly. "'Was'—that'd be about right. This guy cost me my job. They didn't fire me outright, but I got bounced after the next proficiency evaluation. Thirteen years with the Department of Corrections. A good job—great benefits—I lost it all," he muttered bitterly.

"You're here to make a statement, huh?" the judge inquired.

"Damn straight."

Hardcastle nodded and then took a seat on one of the other benches. He'd always wondered why the guy, who'd been a guard at Strykerville for years, hadn't recognized Beale—or even the warden's wife—before J.J. had gotten the drop on him. It seemed . . . _lackadaisical_.

He kept his ponderings to himself. The members of the board were trooping in, taking their seats at a table near the front of the room. They all looked like steady, sober types and he knew none of them. The man in the center nodded to the guard manning the rear door. It must have been the regular signal for getting things underway. He stepped out and returned within a few minutes with Beale in tow.

Hardcastle stared in outright curiosity. Mark had said something once about "prison years" but it hadn't really made all that much sense to him until now. It was as though the clocks moved differently within these walls and Beale had aged three years for every one of the seven that had passed.

But, despite that, the effect was not unpleasant. The dark rimmed, prison-issue glasses and the slightly hunched posture gave Beale an almost scholarly air. This was magnified by the book he clutched under one arm, with the stray ends of papers protruding from it. He walked to his place near the front of the room like a professor going to his podium.

_Looks harmless_.

Hardcastle grimaced. Beale had never been physically unnerving. He'd used his charm to get where he needed to be, and anyone who could resist that usually ended up looking down the barrel of a gun. There were no guns in sight here and Beale had mastered the soft sell. He'd never overplayed a hand in his life, except one time on beach in Malibu, and he wasn't likely to make the same mistake again.

Hardcastle sat back, keeping one eye on the man, who gazed back at him with an air of benevolence as though the judge were the one here seeking _his_ forgiveness.

_It's a game, _Hardcastle warned himself sharply. _You can't lose your cool._

The proceedings began, and the three board members questioned Beale with dutiful thoroughness. His answers were polite without being fawning and through it all he kept an amazing air of detachment, like a man for whom the possibility of parole was of mere academic interest.

It was good--_very_ good. Hardcastle caught a whiff of what had made him pick this guy the first time around, certain that he was already over the hump on the road to reform. He was aggravated, though maybe just a bit pleased, to see the board members starting to nod along with Beale's perfect jive.

Victims had the last say, of course, and once the board had combed through Beale's record—in and out and in prison—they called former Officer Peters for testimony. Hardcastle had a feeling this wasn't going to go well, and seeing Peters stalking to the seat provided for witnesses confirmed his darkest fears.

Victims' statements were entitled to be made without interruption. It was a pity, because Peters' personal diatribe could have used the organization a little intelligent cross-examination might have provided. Even knowing most of the story, Hardcastle was hard-pressed to make much sense of what the man was saying. The statement didn't so much end as wind down—though before it had, at least one of the board members was seen to be surreptitiously checking his watch.

Peters, having finished his statement, sat glaring at Beale, who managed to muster a look of contrite sympathy in return. Despite his position as prisoner, J.J. exuded a peace which stood in sharp contrast to the incoherent vitriol that Peters had spewed.

_One-zero. Beale. Bottom of the ninth. _Hardcastle saw the middle member of the board glance down at his paper then look around the room. It didn't seem to be that much of a puzzle, as he was the only other person there, but it took a moment for the man to consult his schedule again.

"Mr. Hardcastle?"

"Judge," he corrected, "retired, Superior Court." He kicked himself silently. It had come off sounding a little officious. Still, it was part of the story. Anyway, it was too late to start over again.

"_Judge_ Hardcastle," the man nodded once. He wasn't smiling, but at least his face was neutral. "You'll be making a statement?"

He got up and went forward to the seat Peters had just vacated. Beale's expression had gone a little sharper and he was tracking him as he crossed the room. Hardcastle suddenly had no doubt. Beale had not changed. Beale would never change.

_You managed to make an enemy for life._

He tried to stifle the sigh that threatened to come out. He had a vision of the whole thing happening again—Beale out on the loose, this time legally, with nothing but time and patience to plot his revenge. He thought about saying that out loud. He realized how paranoid it would sound, especially stacked up against the mostly-benign countenance looking back at him.

Instead he told his story, starting with the first time he'd brought Beale home. He saw at least one eyebrow go up in doubt. Knowing what he knew now about the man—what he intended to tell them—he realized he was casting considerable doubt on his own judgment, and what was he doing but asking them to rely on that right now?

The irony was irritating. He tried not to let that irritation seep out into his voice. Instead, he became more dogged. If the board members' expressions were any indicator, Hardcastle knew he wasn't swaying anyone. He felt a brief twinge of sympathy for Peters. At least he'd had the satisfaction of telling Beale off to his face.

He realized he'd arrived at the end of the tale, It had come off sounding flat, with all its original potential for disaster drained out of it by his determination to remain calm. He was done, and he was being thanked politely for his willingness to travel all this way.

_For no good reason_. He cast one last look at Beale, though he was almost certain he'd be seeing him again—in a dark alley no doubt. He got up slowly, already feeling a strange unease at having to turn his back on the man.

He was halfway to the back of the room when he saw the guard stepping aside and the door opening cautiously.

"We're not too late, are we?" a familiar voice asked in a near whisper. The guard glanced up at the board, received a nod from the center man, and relayed it to the most recent arrival.

Hardcastle's jaw had already gone slack in surprise, now it snapped back up into place as the door opened further, still slowly, held open with one arm. The guard was scurrying to assist and the reason for the solicitude was now apparent.

"Ms. Sarah Wilkes?" the man with the schedule inquired politely,

It was, and she was leaning lightly on the arm of someone who Hardcastle knew for a fact hadn't gotten an invitation.

"I hope you don't mind," she said quietly, "I brought Mr. McCormick. The letter said I might have someone along to assist me, if I needed it."

"Certainly," the board member replied. "And please take a seat."

Mark conveyed her to the front as though she were made of spun glass, and only capable of small steps, to boot. It was a piece of stage management that was astonishingly subtle. Sarah herself was the very image of frail composure—old _and_ wise.

Finally arriving at the seat, she cast one brief look on the prisoner and shivered delicately. Mark unfolded the knitted shawl he'd had tucked under his other arm and draped it carefully around her shoulders. She gave him a small nod of thanks and clutched it closer around herself, leaning back, very slightly, from the direction of Mr. Beale.

"You wish to make a statement regarding the prisoner's suitability for parole?" the center board member asked gently.

"Yes," Sarah replied, "I do." Her voice had suddenly become a little stronger. "I want to tell you about what Mr. Beale did that morning—the day he came to Gulls Way, Judge Hardcastle's home." She glanced over to the judge, and then away, just as quickly. "I've never told this to anyone before, not even at Mr. Beale's trial."

Hardcastle frowned. He cast a quick look at Mark, who had taken a seat on the bench nearest to where Sarah sat, as though he might be needed for support. That part all seemed finely tuned to maximize Sarah's impact as a victim, but now the judge saw a hint of puzzlement on his face, too, as though Sarah had departed the script.

"I didn't think it was important then," she continued on. Her face and comportment were very controlled, very quiet, as if she were about to impart a secret. All three member of the board were now leaning forward just slightly. Even Beale seemed caught unawares.

"That morning, it was very early. I was still in my room, in a nightdress and robe. The judge and Mark were away. They'd been looking for Mr. Beale since his escape—out all night, trying to find him before he hurt someone. They'd called me though, and told me not to worry about them.

"I heard someone in the house and I thought it must be them, finally come home. I went to the kitchen to see if they wanted any breakfast. Mr. Beale was there, with a gun."

The recital had been calm, but coming from this wisp of a woman it was compelling. There was absolutely nothing about her that suggested she was capable of exaggeration.

"He made me go into the judge's study and sit there. He stayed there, too. The men he'd brought with him were all restless, going in and out, but Beale wasn't—he was just waiting. He sat there, at the judge's desk, and told me what he was going to do when the judge returned home."

She took a breath as though the very recollection was wearying. The pause did nothing to break the focus of her audience.

"He said . . . he called the judge an arrogant old man. He told me he intended to kill him that morning. I am not usually a woman who is prone to fear. I'm old. I've lived a good and useful life. I know it must end sooner or later.

"But J.J. Beale made me afraid that morning. I believed he meant what he was saying, that he would kill Judge Hardcastle and anyone who tried to stop him." Her glance went sharply to Mark and stayed there just a moment. Then she went on.

"I didn't think I would be able to bear it, to watch them be killed. I have lost family before. When you live to be old that is what happens. That pain is far greater, I believe, than losing your own life."

She gathered herself, and pulled her shawl tightly about her.

"If Mr. Beale is set free I have no doubt he will try again to kill Judge Hardcastle. I don't know if he will succeed, or merely die trying. I heartily hope it will be the latter, because I have no desire to survive the former. I am tired of outliving my friends and my family."

She cast her gaze on Beale, who held firm for a second and then looked away. No one on the parole board moved for a long moment, and then the man in the center cleared his throat and said, "Is there anything else you'd like to add, Ms. Wilkes?"

"No," she replied calmly, and then "Mark?"

He was on his feet and at her side in an instant, one hand gently under her elbow, the other arm around her shoulders, steadying her as she rose. Hardcastle was standing, too, ignoring the board as they formally concluded the proceedings.

Beale still sat where he'd been, oddly alone, _isolated_, as only a man without friends can appear. Hardcastle didn't spare him more than a parting glance, but the look he got in return was pure hate, unmasked and obvious to anyone who was looking in that direction. Mark ushered Sarah down the aisle. Hardcastle fell in a little behind them and to the left, between them and Beale, not wanting her to see just how accurate her predictions had been.

It was not nearly as slow a procession as it had been on the way in, but still he felt as though he'd been holding his breath a long time when they finally emerged into the late afternoon sunlight. It seemed strange that it was still light out. It seemed like a great deal more time ought to have passed.

"I'll bring the car around," Mark said, obviously intending to make a quick getaway.

Hardcastle held up one hand. "Wait a sec—"

"Don't be giving him a hard time, Your Honor. It was my idea."

"I wasn't gonna give him a hard time, Sarah."

"But you didn't come and ask me if I wanted to make a statement, did you?"

He hadn't, obviously, and he hated to have to say that it was because she was old, and frail, and he thought the trip—and confronting Beale—would be too much for her. Since he couldn't say that, he said nothing at all.

She looked as if she'd heard every word. "Mark didn't want me to come, either. He even said I could make a recording of it, or tell him and he would write it down and then read it for me at the hearing. Can you imagine that? _Him_ saying those things." She shook her head, smiling slightly. "No, I needed to do it and I'm glad I did."

"I think we're good for another three years," Mark said quietly, casting a long, dark look at the high walls and granite buildings. His expression was unreadable, even to the man who knew him as well as a son.

Sarah reached out and patted his arm gently. "Don't worry, Mark. I'll come back and do it again."

Hardcastle had to smile. He thought it was a likely prospect, whether he granted his approval or not. In the face of defeat he could only capitulate.

"Thanks," he said, "both of you. I'd hate to have to kill the guy but I'd hate even more to let him finally get me . . . Hey," he clapped his hands, "you two eaten yet? There's a great little Mexican place over on Sutter Street. Wonder if it's still there? My treat."

"The least you can do for the woman who probably saved your life," Mark said archly.

"—and her devoted chauffeur," Sarah added with a nod, as she accepted his arm again.


End file.
